ETA 9 Minutes
by Vescaus
Summary: All Shawn had to do was apply pressure to the wound, keep him comfortable and keep him conscious until the ambulance arrived. Keeping Lassiter alive would be the longest and most frightening moments of Shawn’s life.


ETA 9 Minutes

By Vescaus

Disclaimer: Don't own anything.

Summary: All Shawn had to do was apply pressure to the wound, keep him comfortable and keep him conscious until the ambulance arrived. Keeping Lassiter alive would be the longest and most frightening moments of Shawn's life and would re-evaluate everything he knew – or thought he knew - about him.

_- 12 -_

The shot which clapped in the darkness of the night almost made Shawn fall off his motorcycle. Perched on its saddle with a large long lens camera around his neck and looking through his night vision binoculars, he had watched the scene before him unfold with increasing worry. What had begun as a normal stake out from Lassiter's apartment that night ended with a shooting in a desolate car park of lorry freighters on one of the ferry bays.

"Lassiter!" Shawn cried, skidding down the gritty bank next to the road and ran full pelt across the car parking lot so fast he thought he would tumble over his own feet. His legs burnt as he raced towards the detective on the ground. Inside his mind he replayed the moment he saw one of the two men Lassiter had been animatingly talking to pull out a gun and shoot point blank; he would probably forever remember how Lassiter's body doubled up, his hands immediately clutching his abdomen as the shock hit his face; then he collapsed onto one knee looking down at himself as the two men got into a car and drove off, abandoning him in the empty lot. That distance Shawn had looked through his binoculars felt like miles until he fell to his feet at the man's side, practically tearing up his knees on the gravel in the process. "Lassie? Lassie, can you hear me?"

Lassiter had fallen onto his back now. Shawn's eyes strayed over his form trying to determine how serious the bullet wound was. From his position up on the road it had looked like Lassiter was shot in the stomach. Upon closer inspection, Shawn could see the large red stain spreading out on Lassiter's left side, blood soaking through the previous pristine white of Lassiter's T-shirt. He was breathing heavily, trying not to writhe on the ground. As the detective looked up, a moment of confusion appeared on his face before that look on contempt Shawn always associated with him replaced it.

"What the…sweet justice are you doing here, Spencer," Lassiter managed to growl out. He took a deep breath and let it out shakily, his hands fumbling for his jacket pocket. "They could come back. I'm not going to be responsible –" Lassiter paused to suck in another necessary breath – "for your ass too." He sighed in frustration. "God damn phone."

"They're long gone, Lassie," Shawn insisted, slapping Lassiter's hand away. "It's okay, though, I have the number plate. So now I'm here to rescue you, of course. Now stay still before you do more damage to yourself than you already have." Smiling as reassuring as he could muster in the face of a serious situation, Shawn reached into his own pocket and pulled out his phone, waiting impatiently as emergency services connected through to him. It was hard to ignore the small grunts Lassiter made as he clutched the wound and attempted to hide from him the amount of pain he was experiencing. As calmly as he could, he relayed the information to the emergency services.

"Okay," the woman at the other end finally said in a voice far too calm for Shawn's liking. "An ambulance will be with at your location in nine minutes."

"Nine minutes!" Shawn exclaimed, turning away from Lassiter and lowering his voice. "It needs to be here sooner than that."

"I'm sorry, sir, but the ambulance has to make it through the road blockade on State Street to make it down to the transport docks. It will take a little longer than usual but it will make it there as quickly as it can. Just stay with your friend, make sure he's warm and keep him conscious. Talk to him and keep him calm."

Thanking the woman for her sheer lack of help, Shawn hung up and stared down at the head detective.

It was about to be the longest nine minutes of Shawn's life.

_- 9 -_

The first thing Shawn could think to do was to shuck off his own clothes. He was glad that with the current colder weather in Santa Barbara and the amount of protective padding he needed to ride his motorcycle, he had spare layers. His denim jacket he placed under Lassiter's head to make him as comfortable as physically possible whilst lying on a cold cement ground.

"You should be grateful, Lassie. I don't strip for just anybody."

"You haven't answered my question, Spencer," Lassiter growled breathily, not acknowledging the young man's efforts to help him. "What are you doing here?"

Shawn sighed as he shrugged out of his shirt; thankfully he wore a long sleeved jumper underneath as the cold sea air nipped at him. "I followed you, of course."

Lassiter's face lost its pain for a moment as he struggled to sit up and glare at the younger man crouched beside him. "What, no visions, no spirit guida …" He didn't manage to complete his insult, however. The movement of sitting up and angling his body caused Lassiter so much agony that he had to fall back on the ground, a small throaty cry escaping his lips. Shawn watched with increasing morbid fascination as those bloodied hands clenched into fists for a few seconds and his chest rapidly moved up and down in an effort to suck in air.

"Whoa, whoa, breathe through the pain, Lassie, breathe through the pain," Shawn advised, not knowing what else to say or where to touch.

"Why of all people," Lassiter grunted, closing his eyes and shaking his head against the jacket, as if talking to himself. "Why did it have to be you?"

"Hey, don't shoot the saviour," Shawn admonished, cursing himself at his bad choice of words. Even Lassiter opened his eyes to give Shawn an incredulous look. "Look, I hate to be the one talking sense here but you don't have a lot of options except me. And I come with added comforting conversation too!"

Lassiter's breathing subsided slightly but that didn't stop him from glaring at the man above him. "Right now, I need you and your 'added conversation' like a hole in the…" he grimaced…"side."

He didn't want to see the young psychic's smiling face. Anything but that cocky smirk right now. "Lassie, did you make a joke? Technically, I think that would be considered more of a pun than a joke but by your standards that was quite impressive…"

"Listen!" Lassiter shouted and Shawn's smile faded, realizing that it had taken all of the detective's current strength to summon enough admonishment in that one word. So much so that it took a few extra seconds for him to regain enough energy. Shawn glanced down at Lassiter's side again, and swallowed with difficulty at the bloody seeping through the detective's fingers as he clutched his wound. It had become less fascinating and more sickening. "This isn't the time for jokes, Spencer. In fact, the first few minutes after a shooting are the most crucial…So spare me the act."

Without realizing, Shawn found himself nodding out of shame. "I'm sorry. I don't really know…I've never dealt with a shot person before. I once had to help someone who'd been speared by a javelin but that was easy. Just don't touch anything…"

"Oh my god, Spencer," Lassiter pleaded quietly and the psychic wasn't certain whether that was a cry of pain or annoyance.

"Tell me what to do, Lassie. Please."

Lassiter looked at Shawn seriously and the younger man could see how the detective was weighing up all the options in his head. It seemed to take an agonizingly long time for him to determine whether Spencer's presence in this state would be beneficial to him at all. Finally with a shaky sigh, Lassiter grabbed Shawn's wrist. "If the ambulance won't be here for nine minutes…I'll bleed out too much before then. You have to…" He paused again, trying to get his breathing under control, another grimace spreading across his features. "Pressure on the wound, Spencer. Put pressure…on the wound."

Lassiter kept Shawn's suddenly widened gaze. "And whatever you do, don't let up."

_- 8 -_

For one second, Shawn regretted following Lassiter because he was the least equipped person to deal with this. He wasn't like Gus; blood didn't make him faint. However, looking at the absolutely soaked material of Lassiter's shirt and the dark blood that was continuing to leak out, he feared how a man's life was literally in his hands. He and Lassiter had their scuffles but Shawn knew he could never forgive himself if the detective died and he just knelt beside him like a praying monk. So he shrugged off his plaid short sleeved shirt and rolled it into a ball, hiding his shaking hands as he positioned it over the wound.

"You sure about this?" he asked quietly. "Cause, you know, aside from arm wrestling Gus one too many times, I've never willingly inflicted pain on someone. He has very weak triceps, though."

"Spencer, you cause me pain every time I see you," Lassiter muttered, eyes closed in preparation. "Let's call this a physical manifestation. Now make yourself useful, for once and get to it. If I had any control over my life I'd be dealing one pain instead of two."

"What are you talking about? I'm always useful. That's why Santa Barbara's case solving rate is brilliant." Lassiter didn't grace the response with an answer which shook Shawn's confidence again. "Okay, here goes." Shawn took a deep breath and placed his balled up shirt on Lassiter's wound. Then, as quickly as he could he pressed down, not knowing how much pressure it would take to keep the blood from flowing out.

The response was immediate. Lassiter's eyes flew open and he screamed, an agonizing sound echoing across the silent parking lot, shameless in the amount of pain it contained. His body twisted, practically convulsing, and his legs kicked uselessly in an effort to distance himself from the pain. Shawn tried desperately hard to ignore the movements. The sounds Lassiter made were as painful to hear as they were to actually experience and the howl continued. All he could do was keep applying pressure with one hand; the other pushed Lassiter's shoulder down to prevent him from curling into the foetal position away from the source. Lassiter let lose another cry, this one weaker from exertion and his hand grabbed the material of Shawn's shirt sleeve in an impressively tight grip.

"Oh God," Lassiter whispered repeatedly, almost like a sob, turning his head away but keeping that tight grip on Shawn's arm. After a few seconds, though, the only sounds in the parking lot were Lassiter's deliberately controlled panting, the sound of a man who had just finished a 100m sprint, not just lying on the ground.

"Lassiter?" Shawn asked quietly…fearfully. He felt ashamed to admit that the scene he witnessed unnerved him slightly. They were different to any movies he'd watched with Gus in the Psych office. He looked at his hands with fingers now smeared with wet blood. Although Shawn dared not lift his shirt away from the wound in fear of causing Lassiter that much pain again, he could see even that was getting soaked through. "Lassie?" he called more urgently.

Finally, after an agonizing moment, Lassiter turned his face back towards Shawn. His face had paled significantly and was masked with a thin layer of sweat. Shawn pretended not to notice that a thin line of moisture trailed from the corner of his eye and down past his temple, an unwilling reaction from the torture. "I'm fine," he whispered. "You're doing good."

"I didn't think there were levels of achievement for this sort of thing," Shawn quipped, aware how his voice shook from shock. "But now that I'm here and stopped you from dying and all…you owe me an explanation."

Lassiter laughed weakly but it was the sickliest sound Shawn had heard. "I owe _you_? An explanation? For what?"

"What you've been getting up to for the last three weeks?"

_- 7 -_

Shawn adored puzzles.

That's why he loved solving crime and that feel that tingle of pleasure run through every fibre of his being as all the pieces slotted into place. They flashed before his eyes and came together like a movie of broken piece of glass moving back in reverse.

Puzzles which involved people, however, were far more interesting.

Because people don't change. Whether they wish it or not, an individual is programmed in some way and once Shawn could work out the pattern of that person, he could mould them to whatever he wanted. Manipulation was Shawn's key advantage in life and often, albeit sometimes unknowingly, he exploited it. That was the reason he had gotten through life with Gus at his side because he could always aggravate his friend enough to do what he wanted. That was the reason he could tempt Jules into steering him on cases because secretly, she wanted to believe in the paranormal. He knew if he angered his father enough he would just throw his hands in the air and leave Shawn alone, just like he wanted.

Lassiter, however. Lassiter was Shawn's favourite, which surprised him because Shawn felt he would have grown bored fastest of Lassiter's predictability. The narrowing of the eyes whenever he saw the psychic bound into the police station; the rolling of those eyes again whenever Shawn began those antics; that steely expression and low gravel voice as Shawn made personal cracks about anything to do with Lassiter's appearance or personality; and finally that final explosion when all he could do to not lash out and hit the younger man was to grab him by the back of the neck and haul him out.

Bugging Lassiter was fun because secretly, Shawn knew he was tearing himself up inside between his insatiable need to get the case solved and using Shawn's poppycock method to complete the job.

It was when Lassiter stopped behaving like Lassiter which intrigued the psychic. About two weeks ago, Shawn entered the police station just to see if Jules would slide something his way when he noticed Lassiter in the Chief's office with two other men, dressed in dark clothes and glasses. For the whole forty five minutes Shawn gallivanted around the station, Lassiter did not exit the office. An important discussion was happening in that office. Words were exchanged, papers handed over, and signatures signed on the dotted line. Shawn spent thirty of those forty five minutes restraining himself but eventually curiosity got the better of him. He stood beside the Chief's door, Jules glaring at him but not exactly discouraging him either. At the end of the day, she was equally as interested.

He got nothing but hushed voices from inside the Chief's room, discerning between Lassiter's calm, smooth voice and the Chief's higher if not slightly more concerned tone. In fact, Shawn was so engrossed in trying to determine exact words that he practically jumped out of his skin when the door opened. The two men in suits exited first, barely acknowledging Shawn, followed by Lassiter. And for some reason when he saw the psychic…he smiled. "Spencer," he said pleasantly.

Lassiter put his hands on Shawn's shoulders, still smiling. "Spencer."

"Lassie! What's going on, what's with those dudes? Are you laying out the rules of a new club you've started? Oh my God, they've made you president of the Blues Brothers Appreciation Society."

Instead, Lassiter shrugged. "Nothing you can say will annoy me today, Spencer. I'll see you around."

For once, Shawn didn't have an answer as the detective brushed past him. And that was odd. That joke should have at least received a tightening of the lips…but no, nothing.

The next thing Shawn found odd about Lassiter was when he didn't turn up for work for the next few days. Chief Vick firmly told him, as soon as he began to stick his nose in, that Lassiter was sick with the flu. Shawn had been in the police records before and knew that Carlton, in his entire ten years at the SBPD, had only called in sick once and for only one day. Shawn's memory and ability to fit dates together allowed him to work out that the 19th December 2003 was the day his wife had left him. If he only took one day off to drown in misery over his wife leaving him, Shawn found it highly unlikely that Lassiter would have taken four days off to deal with something measly like the _flu_. That, on top of the conversations Shawn had attempted to overhear, raised his suspicions greatly.

"I have a horrible feeling he's being transferred," Jules said quietly to him as they ate Sushi over her desk on day seven. "Given a choice between the SBPD and the FBI…?"

Shawn hated to think that Lassiter was that shallow.

On day ten, Lassiter showed up at work, late in the evening about six o'clock. However, he just came in to 'collect something from his desk,' which was slowly mounting folders of papers and dust in his absence. The shocking thing about it, Shawn realized, was that the man was wearing civvies. He didn't think he could have imagined Lassiter wearing jeans, a jumper and a pair of sneakers but there he was, donning those exact items of clothing. Granted, they were hardly the most fashionable pair of jeans and the most flattering jumper – actually, Shawn mused, the sneakers weren't all that bad – but it wasn't a suit and tie. And almost equally as shocking…it didn't involve a gun holster.

He was in and out in less than five minutes and in all that time he didn't so much as glance, let alone speak to Juliet, Shawn and Gus, all perched on the junior detective's desk. It was not the look of a man suffering from flu.

It was at that point that Shawn had decided to organize the stake-out.

"I was undercover," Lassiter said quietly, not looking at Shawn but at the dark sky above him. "Park Rangers on Santa Cruz Island suspected people were using the land for drug culturing and shipping it to the mainland. FBI found out they were being shipped to Santa Barbara." Lassiter tensed up again and Shawn could do little but keep him as still as possible. Thankfully, Lassiter continued, undoubtedly in an effort to distract himself from the pain. "They wanted to investigate…but the Chief wouldn't back down. So a compromise…I became the one to find out what was going on…by infiltrating those who worked at the docks to unload the ships. They make the arrest."

"I take it you getting shot wasn't part of the master plan," Shawn concluded. "Did you forget to leave your badge and holster at home before you came to work this evening?"

Lassiter shook his head. "No. None of those who worked here knew what was being shipped. Probably thought they were all night freighters. The guys in charge…obviously saw me looking inside the crates this evening and caught up with me after shift. The rest I'm sure is self explanatory. Pressure, Spencer. I'm only asking you to do one thing…try to do that right." Lassiter put his hand on Shawn's waning pressure on his gunshot wound and pressed down. Shawn watched Lassiter practically manipulate him into causing the detective more pain and could only watch in horror as whatever colour complimented Lassiter's complexion automatically fade away. The grip on his wrist tightened and Shawn ignored that bone crunching feeling just to allow Lassiter some sort of outlet. He was biting his lip in an effort not to cry out, making the sound from his throat ever more feral.

Shawn pulled himself together again and batted Lassiter's hand away. "Hey, hey, I'm the one in charge of keeping you alive. How about you concentrate on just lying prone on the ground like a good gunshot victim." He smiled shakily and Lassiter just looked up at him with no expression. He could almost imagine the despair Lassiter was feeling at his attempt to ease his suffering; Shawn would be the first to admit that he had no idea how to handle this situation other than retain his own form of gimmicky humour. It normally eased his own tension. However, the only comfort Shawn received from Lassiter was the consistent rising and falling of Lassiter's chest, even if it was a little fast. "You know, the most shocking thing about the whole story, Lassie, is that you thought that lame- ass excuse of a two week flu would not alert me to something going on. I know you better than that."

Lassiter actually smiled this time, albeit sickening in its weakness. "Forever my downfall, Spencer. I underestimate you every time."

"I never give up. I'm like Rocky."

Lassiter let out a long gush of breath he'd been holding in. "We both know from your employment record…that's not true. But sometimes there is a time to…give up."

_- 5 -_

There were a few more moments of silence, which was difficult for Shawn. He hated silence at the best of times; it was even worse when the silence was punctuated by the sounds of Lassiter's harsh, uneven breathing, which hitched every so often. It pained Shawn more that he was trying to hide it from him. Secretly, he wondered if Lassiter outwardly allowed himself to show any other emotion than anger and frustration. "So, how are you feeling?" Shawn asked after a long pause. "You know, aside from the gunshot wound?"

"Cold," Lassiter finally answered after an agonizingly long time. "Numb. That can't be good."

"Shit," Shawn muttered to himself, even his rudimentary gunshot wound knowledge agreeing. "You didn't think about mentioning this to…well, me?" Lassiter laughed, obviously agreeing with his sentiment. Shawn released his now uselessly blood immersed shirt which had since stopped being a useful plug against the onslaught of blood. He turned it over in his hands, trying to find a cleaner section. "This may hurt a bit again, Lassie. And I'm sorry."

As efficiently as he could, he lifted Lassiter up by the shoulders and positioned himself behind the detective, making the man lie against his chest. Once again, he ignored the obvious pain filled whimpers emanating from the detective as he manoeuvred the pliant man like a precious rag doll. As he rested Lassiter against his chest, he could feel the shivers wracking up and down his body from the amount of blood loss. The now denim pillow became a blanket which Shawn draped over Lassiter's torso. With his right arm wrapped around Lassiter's shoulders to keep him upright and add extra bodily warmth, he used the other to turn the shirt over and press it onto the wound again. Sitting back on his heels in this manner with his knees digging into the rough gravel ground was in no way comfortable for Shawn but he decided if they were going to have a competition over who was experience the least comfort…for once this was no time for him to moan.

"Is that better?"

Lassiter nodded rapidly, unable to say anything else.

Shawn figured he was lying, though.

_- 4 -_

"You know, I never changed my will," Lassiter suddenly whispered.

Shawn looked down at him. "What?"

"Everything is still left to her. She has everything she could possibly want in life…in the world…but I still love her enough to give her everything _I_ have as well." Shawn remained silent, not knowing what to say to Lassiter's sudden brutal honesty. "I guess I was just in denial until the last moment. Even after the divorce papers…stupid pieces of paper with signatures…ended my marriage, a life long commitment…I refuse to believe it could be over…_so easily_. The will is the only original part of my marriage left." He smiled slightly. "Stupid, huh?"

Shawn shook his head. "No, it's not, Lassie. You don't realize how much you miss something until it's gone. Holding on is not a sign of weakness." He laughed to himself for a second. "I didn't understand the meaning of it until much later but Henry…he wore his wedding ring all through the separation – anywhere and everywhere – and then when I was eighteen, just before I left town, he took it off to cook. Just like it was any piece of jewellery."

"Ironies of life, Spencer. The almost four years of separation was agonizing. The divorce…it was easy. I doubt your dad's forgotten all the future plans he had."

"Yes, well, he wanted me to be a cop. He never lets me forget it."

Lassiter hummed slightly. "Every…every cop wants their son to follow in their footsteps. I would have done. But we never tried again after the miscarriage."

Shawn stopped his warming up routine for a moment, wondering if Lassiter was aware of that little snippet of information he released as though it was a part of casual every day conversation. "Miscarriage?" he repeated quietly…fearfully.

"Seven years ago. The one thing we had in common. Just didn't know it at the time." Before, Shawn could wrap his head round it, however, Lassiter was continuing with his tirade of overwhelming personal information. "I always assumed that on the day I died, Victoria would be there. Now she'll just get a phone call tomorrow."

"You're not going to die, Lassie," Shawn assured him, trying to recover from his own spinning thoughts and Lassiter's sudden change in conversational direction. "The spirits have told me. You're not ready to join them yet in guiding me. Besides, isn't she…Victoria on the list as your next of kin?"

Lassiter shook his head and suddenly looked panicked. He grabbed Shawn's arm that was wrapped across his torso for warmth and Shawn struggled to keep him still. Lassiter's breathing quickened staring straight ahead at nothing. "No. Oh my God, no, I took her off. I was so drunk and angry that night…"

Shawn frowned at his inability to follow Lassiter's sudden jumpy train of thought. "So who is?" The detective's pale face and watery eyes looked up at him blankly and bleary eyed. "Who's your next of kin, Lassiter?"

"O'Hara," Carlton whispered and Shawn felt his chest ache a little bit. He doubted that Juliet even knew her name had been put down as Lassiter's desperate attempt to find someone who would answer for him any time of day or night. In the back of his mind he wondered where Lassiter's family were and made a mental note to ask after they got out of this mess.

Shawn's face hardened and he leaned over Lassiter. "Hey, Lassie, it's going to be okay . You can put her back on if you want afterwards. Besides, I'm here at the moment, remember? Lassiter? Can you hear me?"

But Lassiter didn't seem to hear him. His eyes were scrunched tight and for one fearful moment, Shawn wasn't sure whether that was due to the return of the pain or if he was actually going to start crying. "Yes," he replied after a few moments, finally registering what Shawn had said. "I hear you. I take back what I said before by the way. I'm not mad you followed me, Spencer. In fact…I'm almost grateful. For that moment before you got here, I thought I just bleed out here by myself and someone would find me too late. No one would know until I failed to report to the Chief tomorrow…"

- 3 -

"…Don't want to screw up the first undercover assignment I've had in years." Lassiter let out another grunt of pain, seizing up in Shawn's arms and he could do little but hold on and release gentle soothing noises. "You know, I've been shot before," Lassiter whispered, despite the fact the pain hadn't faded.

If Lassiter wanted to distract himself from the pain, Shawn would help him. It didn't matter that he was jumping around from topic to topic. So he nodded along. "I know. Back of the leg, just above your right knee." He'd noticed it when he and his father returned from fishing that time, an ugly round scar which could have come from no other weapon and the lack of exit wound at the front. Shawn couldn't imagine how painful it must be to have an entry leg in the soft tissue of the thigh.

"Back from when I was a rookie. Was a bit too eager back then. Do you know what I thought then…?" Lassiter paused and gave a whole body shudder and Shawn could practically feel the cold emanating from him. "I thought…I thought that if there was any way I was to die on the job…getting shot would be a fitting end. I just didn't think it would be yet."

"You have to stop being so morbid all the time, Lassie. All the girls at the station are talking about it."

"I almost did it once," Lassiter whispered, railroading him for the umpteenth time in as many minutes, still staring at the sky. "Drove north for miles, I can't remember where. All I know is that I ended up by a bridge…in the most beautiful valley in California. And I sat with my gun for hours. Hours just holding it deciding what to do. And there were moments…seconds…in those hours where I honestly could have just done it. I could have done it because it only takes a second for your finger to pull it. I thought I had nothing left because she had always been there. Then one day she made good on her threat and left. She even took her morning coffee mug. I couldn't stand the thought of having failed and losing her. You can't describe how it makes someone feel like they've been dragged along the ground and kicked in the dirt...what do you do when you lose everything?"

Lassiter finally stopped staring at the sky and his eyes met Shawn's in a vacant way. "Don't hold it against me. I came back the next day and have carried on ever since."

Shawn was speechless for a few moments. He was certain his mouth was gaping like a goldfish's, attempting to swallow the information that had just been sputtered. He knew Lassiter liked to portray himself as the strong man, the one in control, the one in charge. He could imagine he acted in his marriage no different than he acted in his job. However, to imagine Lassiter losing grip and reaching such rock bottom was difficult to grasp. And nobody ever knew. "Why would I hold it against you?"

Lassiter laughed, an almost hysterically pathetic half whine-half giggles that made Shawn cringe. "You don't respect the law, Spencer. So you don't respect me. Not as an officer or a person. You've done nothing but pick on my flaws since I met you but really that has been my only moment of weakness. Seven hours on a quiet bridge with my gun. I could have done it then and not cared." He looked up at Shawn. "But I don't want to die now. I know I don't want to die yet."

"You're not going to die, Lassiter."

"Then help me, for fucks' sake!" Lassiter cried, grabbing his arm again and crying out in a mixture of anger and pain. As Shawn held onto the fighting detective, whose feet were flailing about and body twisting awkwardly, he could feel his eyes blurring, never in his life feeling as useless as he did now. He could not possibly imagine the agony the detective was feeling and even with the pleading, Shawn could do little to ease the suffering. "For once, don't mock me, just help me."

- 2-

The shock that Shawn felt over the confession for once rendered him speechless.

Shawn knew that when they got out of this hellish scenario, the dynamic of the relationship between him and Lassiter would have changed. At least, he hoped it would change. Something as significant as this, which was affecting his perception on life and Lassiter deserved some form of acknowledgement.

"Lassie, you still with me?" Shawn asked, shifting slightly to make both of them more comfortable and looking around the docks. There was still no sign of life and there hadn't been for the last ten minutes. It wasn't surprising. If a crate of drugs were to be shipped to Santa Barbara, it would be to the most desolate part of the bay. He had expected the detective to answer him straight away but when no answer was forthcoming, he looked down. The adrenaline from thirty seconds ago had diminished, leaving Lassiter practically unconscious. "Lassie? Lassiter, can you hear me?" he finally shouted, the pitch of his voice hurting his own ears, therefore must have been deafening to Lassiter, who was inches away from him.

Carlton's eyes blinked open and he looked bleary. Shawn could see the change in those dulling blue eyes as they moved from confusion to acknowledgement. "Spencer," he said so quietly, it was hard to hear. The disjointedness of his words, brought on by the now continuous shivers, made him harder to understand. "What are you still doing here? It's dangerous. I'm undercover."

Shawn swallowed tightly. "It's okay, Lassie, your cover's not blown. I'm just here to help you for a bit. Just promise me you'll stay awake."

"I never…close my eyes around people. Especially you," Lassiter murmured, his eyes drifting closed again as he said it. Shawn had to shake him to rouse him again eliciting another almost sob-like sound. "Stop, Spencer, please. I can't. It hurts…too much…"

Shawn pulled the denim jacket higher over his shoulders. "I know, it does, Lassie. But just think, when you get out of this, you'll owe me! Think of the fun we'll have…think of the hero you'll be in the station. Think of the recognition. That you will be responsible for bringing down a drug cultivation group. Just hold onto that thought, Lassie. You need to crack the case."

Lassiter was blinking rapidly and Shawn had to give the detective credit for trying under these dire circumstances. However, he knew this was a losing battle, made even worse when Lassiter whispered, "Spencer, why are we at the docks? I go fishing further up the coast. Sometimes…the lake…"

Shawn looked up to the cloudy inky sky and bit his lip, trying to control his own breathing in the face of panic. He prayed.

_- 1 -_

Shawn would give Lassiter anything he wanted to hear if he just stayed awake. However, he didn't particularly want to hear the detective talk, knowing that each disorientated comment indicated his further decline; that each disjointed sentence caused him pain. For a few moments, Lassiter was content with just murmuring nonsense. However, a few seconds later, with a sudden burst of alertness, Lassiter grabbed Shawn's arm and the psychic stopped in mid-encouragement, watching as the detective's struggle to speak. "I'm a good cop, you know," he finally blurted out.

Shawn nodded understandingly. "I know that, Lassie. Why do you think I chose you out of everyone in the department? I only side with the best." His joke fell flat in the seriousness of the conversation; he wasn't even sure Lassiter heard it properly he was so disorientated. He was looking at Shawn eerily, looking right through the younger man. Lassiter's face shone impossibly pale in the stark lights of the car park.

No matter what Shawn did, he realized, he couldn't help. And it was as Lassiter became increasing worse and Shawn felt evermore helpless, he could hear the beautiful sirens of the ambulance ring louder and louder.

"I'm a good cop," Lassiter stressed again. "But my biggest flaw was that I could never act like the better man and get over this jealousy. Which in turn made me a bad cop."

"I'm not here for your confession, Carlton."

"I'm still sorry," Lassiter suddenly whispered, as he collapsed back, practically sobbing. He clutched at his wound, hand on top of Shawn's. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I never hated you. I just couldn't be the better cop. I refused to see that you were helping, I didn't want to believe it. Can you understand that? I never hated you. Don't hold it against me now…" Shawn could do little but stare at Lassiter with a goldfish expression across his face. For the second time that night, Lassiter had managed to render him speechless. Deep down, he knew Lassiter didn't – couldn't – really hate him. And although he may deny that he had craved the detective's recognition of his abilities, he would have given anything to discover the truth under any other circumstances. He didn't want to hear that his constant badgering of Lassiter had led the man to believe he wouldn't help him when he needed it.

Lassiter let out a weak grunt of pain, not even having the energy to vocalise how much it hurt anymore. His breathing was quickening and his eyes blinked furiously trying to stay awake. "I'm sorry. I just…I don't, I _don't_ want to die, Shawn," he whispered. Shawn had heard many negative emotions escape Carlton Lassiter. But he'd never heard fear…he'd never heard scared. And from that point on, Shawn lost trust in his own words of encouragement and in his voice to carry them off without shaking.

"It's okay. I'm not letting go, Lassie. But if you want to hear me apologize for being your regular pain in the ass, you're going to have to hold on too. Not going to give you that satisfaction just yet, Lassie." He swallowed tightly, watching as the detective's eyes began to close gently. He could feel the fight dissipating from Lassiter and his own heart thundered from the panic of that realization. "Lassie! Lassiter, I'm serious, stay awake. You need to finish the case, remember."

Carlton kept his eyes closed but gave the barest shake of his head. "You're going to have to…solve it for me. I trust you."

"It's not my case, Lassiter. It's yours, I'll give it to you this time. Just listen, the ambulance is almost here."

Lassiter shook his head. "You did your best, Spencer, as always," he said, lips barely moving as his eyes closed, his body heavier against Shawn's with every passing second. It was getting difficult to maintain his balance whilst holding on the ever increasing dead weight of the detective. His head fell back onto Shawn's shoulder. "Just…don't let go." He squeezed at Shawn's hand briefly still pressing the chequered shirt against his side.

"Carlton, please," Shawn begged, without a care now to how desperate and small his own voice sounded. He refused have made it through eight minutes only to have the emergency service be greeted to him holding a dead friend. It didn't matter that he was shaking the man and how much it hurt him anymore so long as it elicited some response. "A little longer, that's all I'm asking. A few seconds for the ambulance to get here."

He got no response and his own panic reached its height. "Carlton. Carlton! Please don't leave me here!"

All Lassiter did was continue looking up at a cloudy black sky oblivious to Shawn's shouting and shaking. "There's still tomorrow," he said.

_- 0 -_

The hallways were unendingly silent, echoing only of hushed nurses' voices and squeaks of trolleys. As soon as the paramedics insisted Shawn couldn't go any further, he'd stumbled into the nearest toilet and leaned against the sink, breathing heavily. For a few moments, the adrenaline which had kept his nausea at bay throughout those ten minutes on the docks and the ambulance ride threatened to let lose. He gagged a few times. It was then that he noticed his hands clutching the sides of the pristine porcelain of the sink in a death grip. He stepped back in horror, his back hitting one of the bathroom stall dividers.

Left behind were perfect handprints and he could see all the detail because of the dried blood that had been left behind. His fingerprints almost shone in the highlighted blood, slightly smeared from where he'd gripped so tightly. Lassiter's blood.

Looking in the mirror, his own reflection startled him. His palms and fingernails were completely red. His jumper and jeans were stained from where he'd attempted to wipe his hands in order to keep a better grip on Lassiter and the shirt he'd used on Lassiter's wound. On his jumper cuff and upper arm, he could see the marks from where Lassiter had grabbed him in his own state of panic. Even his face and neck had little flecks of blood on them. The jeans around his knees were scuffed from where he'd knelt in the gravel. He looked like a victim himself.

The fact that this sheer volume of blood belonged to one man unnerved him. If Lassiter didn't make it, Shawn knew these clothes would haunt him forever.

The thought of Lassiter on the ground and the sounds he made, made Shawn's stomach turn again. He hated seeing that much weakness outpouring from someone he knew; he didn't like to think people who spent their lives maintaining an impenetrable strong persona could be broken apart like that. He leant one arm across the sink again and put his head down, trying to take in slow deep breaths that would calm his rapid heartbeat and panic every time he thought of the detective.

What would have happened if he hadn't followed Lassiter? Undoubtedly, he would have gone back to the Psych office, probably attempted to play darts on the electronic darts board he'd bought and challenge Gus simply to distract him from actual work. He would have woken up and headed to the police station in the morning to hear the news that Lassiter had been shot and left to die by himself in a docking bay parking lot. Despite the situation he now faced, having stalked Lassiter was a far better scenario than the latter.

Shawn could proudly admit that things did not shake him often. Normally, he could recover from a situation quickly. Yet he'd never had to tend to a gunshot victim by himself before and certainly not somebody he knew. The more he thought about it, however, the little he knew about Lassiter. He'd learnt more about the man in those ten minutes than he'd cared in the last three years. An even scarier thought, Shawn, realized was that Lassiter had revealed his deepest, darkest and loneliest secrets in a moment of absolute weakness and to a man who the detective had admitted himself to disliking. For some reason, it didn't comfort Shawn whatsoever. In fact, it made him feel guiltier. What exactly did Lassiter want Shawn to do with this information? How could he live with the knowledge that he possessed more information about Lassiter next to his mother and possibly his ex-wife?

Shawn bowed his head and made a pact with God that if he allowed Lassiter to live then he would make a conscious effort to cease berating the man constantly and give him the credit he was due. Give him the attention and recognition he deserved from people. Shawn hated pitying people. He couldn't stand the pity he felt for his father when he discovered he was attempting to make amends with his wife who had left him. It actually felt worse to pity Lassiter.

Immediately he straightened up and ran a hand through his hair, forcing his brain to push back those thoughts; those rational ones that were trying to convince him that Lassiter would die; that his injuries were too severe for him to recover fully. Yet that optimism which Shawn also prided himself in was slipping from his grasp.

Carlton Lassiter was no different to him. He _didn't _give up. He had proven that countless times.

What remained unsettled in the pit of Shawn's stomach, however, wasn't the gasped intakes of breath or the sight of his blood on the stone gravel floor; it was _how _Lassiter had spoken of him. How much little faith Lassiter had in Shawn's character that he actually believed Shawn would be shallow enough to not help him. He knew he yanked Lassiter's chain more than anyone else at the station but it had never been out of spite. Shawn honestly could not understand how Lassiter could have read him so wrong that he believed Shawn wouldn't help him.

To distract himself from the dark thoughts that were currently prevailing, Shawn had to wash his hands as thoroughly as he could. He watched as pink water swirled around the basin and disappeared down the drain. The soap got rid of the stains on his hands but not around his fingernails and after a few minutes frustration, he stopped before he hacked his fingers to piece in a Lady Macbeth style-scenario. The _out damn spot_ panic attack would have to wait for a more convenient time. Right now, he still had to be the one to maintain a level head for Lassiter and whatever news would breach those double doors.

The corridor was as silent when he emerged except for one lone figure. He'd only been in the bathroom for ten minutes so Juliet must had only just arrived. She sat on the waiting room seat, dressed hap-hazzardly, looking tired but worried enough that she fidgeted continually. She wasn't one for waiting either.

"Shawn," she finally said, looking up, a range of emotions let lose from that single word.

Shawn could remember how she had gasped as his condition, the full realization of how bad Lassiter's injuries were coming to light. Without information, the brain would always try to play down or play up the severity. But as Shawn sat there and sputtered, he found he could say nothing that would make her feel better. No words to describe in any coherent form what had happened. All he felt was relief. Even with her lack of make-up, her teary eyes and her terribly mismatched clothes Juliet was the most beautiful sight Shawn had seen. And he didn't protest when she hugged him tightly, not caring about his blood stained clothes or almost inability to keep upright. In fact, when he brought his arms around her, feeling her warmth, he was more thankful than he could express that he wasn't alone anymore.

By himself, his memory would come into play and recreate those moments by the docks in perfect HD detail. It was the first time in an age Shawn felt his gift hang like a black cloud over his head.

"He'll be fine," Juliet assured him and Shawn was grateful for her optimism because his well had run dry. She could take over his management duties now. Because he knew, even if Carlton Lassiter made it through he wouldn't _really _be fully fine. Just like he hadn't been fine before. And only he knew that.

_End_


End file.
